Walking on Thin Ice
by VampirePam
Summary: After Lestrade breaks up with Mycroft for refusing to open up, it takes nine months and the presumed death of a detecting genius for them to find each other again. Character study for Mycroft from "Scandal in Belgravia" to "Reichenbach Fall".
1. Say All I Need

"God damn it, Mycroft! I am so bloody tired of this!" Gregory Lestrade shouted, running a hand through his silver hair.

Mycroft let out an almost imperceptible sigh and raised a hand to his temples. They'd had this particular argument enough times over the past two months that he knew the lines by heart. No matter how much the staging changed, the script seemed to remain the same. He wondered despondently if this would be their final performance.

"I understand you are upset, Gregory, but I wish you wouldn't shout," he said with what had been intended as forbearance, but came off as weariness.

"Oh, I'm sure you would," Lestrade snapped, pausing in what had formerly been frenetic pacing to turn back to Mycroft. "You'd love it if everyone in the world sat down and talked everything out like gentlemen."

"You say _gentlemen _as if it were an expression of vulgarity," Mycroft observed incisively.

"Yeah, well, maybe it is to me. You ever think of that?" Lestrade shot back. "Some of us weren't born and bred on this stiff upper lip nonsense, you know."

Mycroft did know. It was one of the things that he loved best about Gregory - the way he could just say what he was thinking or feeling at any given moment without agonizing over questions of decorum or propriety.

"Yes, well, there is rather a need for this 'stiff upper lip nonsense,' as you have so charmingly christened it, in my line of work, wouldn't you agree?" he said instead, disguising the oh-so-familiar churning sensation in his stomach with a placid smile.

"Don't do that, don't go making it about your job again," Lestrade insisted, his voice shaking with the unvoiced threat. "I'm not asking you to compromise national security, for Christ's sake! I couldn't give a flying fuck what you're doing for the government. But how it's affecting you, if it's killing you from the inside out? _That_ I need to know, Mycroft. Is it really too much to ask?"

Mycroft remained silent. He couldn't bear to tell the man who had been sharing his bed for over half a year how afraid he was that simple, human communication was, in fact, more than he could give.

"I really don't know what gives you the idea that I'm feeling anything of that sort whatsoever," Mycroft said finally, rising from the chair to compulsively straighten the single vase on the mantelpiece.

"Twice this week alone you've gone out with one blue sock and one black; you vacillate between picking at your food and covertly devouring whole bags of crisps in the bathroom when you think I'm not looking; and you haven't slept more than four or five hours a night since mid-June," Lestrade rattled off briskly. "Oh, you lie there perfectly still in the hopes that I won't notice, but even you can't fake REM-cycle breathing, Mycroft."

When Mycroft looked at him in surprise, Lestrade retorted, "I may not be a Holmes, but I'm still a damned good detective. So do me the courtesy to stop pretending that there's nothing wrong."

"I just don't see what any of this has to do with us," Mycroft replied with a little shrug. He knew the second he finished speaking that it was a lie.

"I'm tired of waiting for you to let me in, Mycroft," Lestrade said pointedly, sounding as weary and frustrated as he professed to be. "Either I'm someone you can confide in, or I'm not. Just tell me, and we can both stop wasting our time."

In that moment, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to let it all spill out: the coded memo that had made its way onto his desk two months prior, throwing his normally orderly office into utter chaos; the plane set to crash into the ocean in five months' time; the cold fear that had not ceased clutching at his stomach since the moment that his superiors had commanded him to, "Take care of it, Mycroft," and selected him as the most suitable candidate for the disagreeable role of judge and executioner.

But when he turned so he was staring directly into Lestrade's earnest, brown eyes, Mycroft found himself frozen in place. Too long had he made a habit of grinding down every stray feeling to form a polished, impenetrable shield to let it down again, no matter how much he wanted to. _No_, Mycroft told himself, _there's just too much at stake_.

When the silence stretched from seconds into minutes and it became abundantly clear to both of them that Mycroft wasn't going to give Lestrade the answer he wanted to hear, it was Lestrade who spoke first.

"Well," he said, drawing a hand across his brow, "I guess that's that, then. I'll, um, swing by later to pick up my things."

"I am sorry that you feel this is necessary, Gregory," Mycroft said, and though he could hear all too well the hollowness in his voice, found himself unable to alter it to adequately express the sense of loss that was rapidly sweeping over him.

"You're sorry I feel this is _necessary_?" Lestrade repeated incredulously, shaking his head as he went to shrug on his coat. "I'm _leaving_ you, and that's all you can bring yourself to say to me?"

He made his way toward the door, pausing only to pivot and proclaim forlornly, "It must be true what they say - you really are made of ice." With this parting shot delivered, Lestrade whirled round and strode from the room, wiping a hand across his eyes just a second too soon for it to pass by Mycroft's all-seeing gaze.

Mycroft himself stared after him for several long moments before letting out a single, shuddering breath. He wanted to scream, or weep, or throw his glass into the fire - something, _anything_. But even with only himself as a witness, Mycroft Holmes was unable to bring himself to do anything more than take a long sip of his scotch and absorb in some despair the sudden silence of his flat, disrupted only by the occasional clink of ice in his glass.


	2. Dreaming Out Loud

_October 15, 2010_

It was nearly four in the morning when Mycroft finally allowed himself to indulge in his allotted forty-five minutes of sleep. For the past two months, this was the longest period of repose he was able to manage; it was as if Lestrade's departure had severed the last restraint tethering him to anything resembling a normal sleep schedule.

His days and nights blurred together into a never-ending stream of work and worry, punctuated by the occasional power nap and not-so-occasional dose of high-grade, caffeine pills. And then there were the dreams.

Mycroft had never been much of a dreamer, had always thought his mind far too disciplined to require that sort of outlet. Yet now it seemed the less he slept, the more he dreamt - always nightmares, and always about that damned plane. Flight 007 seemed more and more to be his personal poltergeist, haunting both his waking and sleeping selves.

On this particular night, he was stumbling his way down the aisle of the plane, navigating only by the twin tracks of emergency lights on the floor as he clutched at the threadbare seats. Suddenly, there was a loud rattle, like some ancient piece of machinery starting for the first time, and a few of the overhead lights came flickering on.

Mycroft's gaze swept over the passengers, their faces thrown into sudden, harsh relief by the shuddering light of the overheads. It took only a few seconds for him to realize, to his horror, that not only did they all share the same face, but it was one he knew all too well: Lestrade's.

The scream which escaped him as he stared, transfixed, into his former lover's dead, accusing eyes was almost entirely drowned out by the sudden, deafening whirr of the engines. Then the world tilted as the plane began its descent down, down, down toward the cold, watery depths of its intended destination.

Mycroft felt himself tumbling down the now vertical aisle, grasping uselessly at the armrests of the seats as he plummeted past them. His body ached from buffeted from one block of seats to another, and by the time he slammed his eyes shut to brace for the final impact, Mycroft was already doubled over in pain, clutching his aching stomach.

When the pain had subsided enough for him to open his eyes again, however, Mycroft was shocked to find himself no longer in a Seven Forty-Seven headed straight for the ocean, but safe and sound in his own bedroom. Before Mycroft had time to contemplate this, however, the burning in his stomach returned with a vengeance, and he found himself scrambling ignominiously out of bed in the direction of the bathroom.

His hands were shaking as he pried the top off a bottle of Prilosec and let four pills tumble into his hands, swallowing them just before another wave of nausea brought him to his knees on the cold, tile floor.

He knew that four was too many, just as he knew that being trapped in an endless cycle of ulcer preventatives that gave him the nightmares, which in turn aggravated his ulcer was a patently unsustainable health plan.

Still, curled up miserably in the corner of his spacious, tidy bathroom, Mycroft could not bring himself to care about the long term consequences of his pain management strategy. Nor could he muster any appropriate guilt over what he knew he would inevitably do next.

Trying to ignore the continued unsteadiness of his hands, Mycroft fumbled for the sleek, silver phone mounted on the wall just above his head. Though a couple of the very select number to have seen his bathroom had questioned the necessity of such a device in the era of the omnipresent mobile, Mycroft had responded, quite coolly, that as there were times when his being reachable could quite literally mean the difference between life and death, he thought it only prudent to take every precaution.

Now was not, of course, such a time, but as he frantically punched in the appropriate numbers, Mycroft could not help feeling a homologous level of urgency.

It took until the third peal for the ringing to be abruptly cut off by the voice of Gregory Lestrade. "Hey," he said, sounding groggy, but unsurprised, "just give me a minute."

It had begun two months prior, the first phone call following the first nightmare, only a few days after the two of them had parted ways. On that night, it had been the image of Lestrade trapped and screaming inside a slowly sinking plane which had seared itself into his memory.

At the time, Mycroft had utilized everything at his disposal to try and chase away that image, from knocking back several scotch and sodas to scanning the endless inanity of late night television in search of distraction. None of it even made a dent. He would have gladly accepted the cold comfort a few sleeping pills would have brought him had he not been terrified that the accompanying hallucinations would jumpstart the whole cycle over again.

So it was that Mycroft had found himself curled up in the corner of his closet like a frightened child, extracting a burn phone from a seemingly innocuous shoebox, and dialing Lestrade's number as if his very life depended on it.

The relief which had flooded through him upon hearing Lestrade's voice - confused and rough with sleep, but so undeniably his - had been so prodigious that Mycroft had nearly broken down and sacrificed the anonymity the burn phone afforded him for the comfort of a real conversation.

Yet there was still just enough of his customary composure in place that he had remained silent, letting the comforting timbre of Lestrade's voice wash over him as he listened to the other man attempt to ascertain who could be calling him at such a late hour from an unlisted number.

The first name Lestrade had tried, however, came as a complete surprise to him. "Mycroft? Is that you?" To this day he was still not entirely sure how the other man had known it was him, but from that time on, despite Mycroft's continued silence, Lestrade had never behaved as if he could have been anyone else.

So it had gone on for the two subsequent months. There would come another nightmare, another horrifying picture he couldn't banish from his mind, and Mycroft would find himself giving in once more to his need for human connection.

There was little variation in the content of these conversations - though indeed, Mycroft sometimes wondered if they could, strictly speaking, be called conversations when only one of them ever actually spoke - and the one they were now seemed to be no exception to this rule.

"It's been a couple weeks," Lestrade began a couple minutes later, the weariness in his tone causing a pang of guilt to blossom in Mycroft's stomach beside the dull ache already present there, "I'd hoped things had gotten better." He waited a beat before adding, "I hoped you'd finally gotten some real help."

Though he never answered Lestrade aloud, Mycroft sometimes couldn't help filling in what his responses should have been. _Don't be like that, _he pleaded silently, _you know it's not that simple. _

"This can't go on forever, Mycroft," Lestrade said, "Don't you see that? Sooner or later you're going to do some permanent damage to yourself."

_I know_, Mycroft thought despairingly, _but what can I do? If I don't take this on, people will die. Can't you see that?_

Hearing only silence, Lestrade sighed and said, "All right, have it your way. It was gorgeous out there today - twenty degrees, nothing but sunshine. Light lunch - watercress on croissant, and a tangerine. Splurged a bit on dinner - chicken cordon bleu, spinach salad, pear tart. Then I finally started that _Hunger Games _thing all the kids are reading. Plucky underdog heroine decides to take on a corrupt, all-powerful system. You'd probably hate it."

Mycroft barely managed to sneak his hand over the phone before the teary laugh escaped him. This was always the part of these phone calls that cheered him up the most. Hearing Lestrade narrate the mundane, little details of his day made him feel, just for a little while, like everything was normal, like everything was going to be okay.

God, _I don't deserve you, _Mycroft thought at the phone, _I know that. And I'm sorry I'm too much of a coward to tell you_ _so. _

"Well, I'm going to take that laugh you're trying so hard to hide as a sign at you're feeling better," Lestrade said, and Mycroft would have sworn he could hear the smile in his voice, "and that it's all right if I say goodnight. Just try to get some sleep, would you, My?"

Mycroft felt a sudden current of warmth shoot through his body. It was a remnant of a pattern from their time together - nicknames were only ever used in private, and only when they were feeling particularly fond of one another.

Though neither had ever quite articulated it in so many words, it became an understanding between them that the nicknames meant something rather close to "I love you." Hearing his now, after spending the last two months convincing himself that he had surely lost Lestrade forever, Mycroft found himself experiencing a rush of something dangerously close to hope.

Such was the elation that filled him that he allowed a few words to actually escape his lips, albeit only in the barest of whispers, "Good night, Greg." It was all he could manage to get out, though there was so much more that needed saying. _Thank you. I'm sorry. I miss you so much._

Still, from the pleased tone in Lestrade's voice as he said, "Good night, Mycroft," before hanging up, Mycroft was able to cling to some small hope that the other man had been able to see past the words to the sentiment behind them.

Sufficiently soothed by the combination of Lestrade's reassurances and the slight overdose of Prilosec, Mycroft slowly extracted himself from his position in the corner of the bathroom - though not to return to bed, per Lestrade's advice.

Instead, he dressed in the black pinstripe suit and gold tie he had laid out for the day - with where he would be going later, he had deemed a little extra care rather warranted - and headed to the office. The ability to keep whatever strange hours he wished without comment or inquiry was one of the benefits of his vocation that Mycroft appreciated the most.

He made himself as comfortable as he could at his desk considering he had not even managed his customary two to three hours of sleep and endeavored to occupy his mind with any of the hundred meaningless, bureaucratic tasks he was required to complete on an average day.

It was in this way that he passed the few hours remaining of the night, and a couple of the morning, until his stream of industriousness was interrupted by a light knock on his office door, signaling, he could only assume, the presence of his invaluable amanuensis.

"What is it, Hippolyta?" he asked, glancing up from his computer screen to look at his assistant who, as of the previous Monday, had chosen the name of an Amazon queen as her current moniker.

She paused for a split second before explaining, "That confidential file you told me to send round to the Detective Inspector's place yesterday? He won't be there to receive it. My sources tell me that he's in Paris until the end of the week."

Her slight reluctance in communicating this seemingly innocuous, if surprising, information led him to make a most troubling deduction. "With whom?" Though he made sure to keep his expression blank to cover the wave of nausea now sweeping over him, Mycroft knew that no pretense on his part could escape the keen gaze of his indispensable second-in-command.

"His ex-wife," she said briskly, making a point to direct her attention to straightening the already perfectly arranged papers on his desk before inquiring, "Shall I forward it on to our contact at the Surete?"

"No," Mycroft replied with a taut smile and a slight sigh. "No need to bother him on holiday. Just send it by the usual address on Monday - I trust he will have returned by then."

"Of course," she murmured demurely, "Consider it done, sir."

"Thank you, Hippolyta," he said, his smile loosening a bit to become genuine, albeit still half-hearted. She only ever called him 'Sir' when she was feeling especially facetious or especially fond, and judging by the barely perceptible softness permeating her tone, he deemed the latter more likely.

"Your car is waiting for you downstairs," she continued, before typing a few keys into her omnipresent Blackberry, "And it appears that your brother and Doctor Watson are en route. Shall I tell Mr. Carrington-West that you're on your way?"

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft said, letting the weariness which was only just now hitting him seep into his tone for a moment, it being just the two of them.

"Here," she said quietly, reaching up to straighten his tie, which Mycroft realized with some dismay must have somehow become askew. After applying her efficient fingers to giving his handkerchief and lapels the same treatment, she smoothed out his jacket and declared, "Now you're ready."

"What would I do without you, Hippolyta?" Mycroft asked, and though his tone was teasing, the sentiment was sincere.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir," she said, the barest hint of a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. "You'd best be off - it wouldn't do to keep them waiting too long."

"No, it certainly would not," Mycroft agreed, indulging in a single, deep breath before erecting his customary, impervious exterior once more. _ No time to indulge in self-pity_, he told himself firmly, _not when there's important work to be done._

At least this was what he said to himself before the half hour limo ride afforded him ample time for self-reflection. Intellectually, he understood that Lestrade's week _en vacance_ was none of his concern, no more so than the apparent resurgence of his interest in women. Consequently, there was also no reason he could conceive of for deploying an MI-5 surveillance team to keep an eye on him...as much as he might want to.

What bothered him almost as much, however, was Lestrade's now glaring omission of the information during their last phone conversation. The last thing a man trying to rekindle an old romance needed was a former paramour calling him in the middle of the night - Mycroft knew Lestrade would have been well within his rights to tell him as much at the time.

In retrospect, he supposed there were little hints that he had decisively chosen to ignore. For one, Lestrade had never before asked for a few minutes upon answering the phone - clearly he needed the time to find a secluded location. Then there had been the day's menu; chicken cordon bleu and pear tart were decidedly not on the Detective Inspector's regular gastronomical rotation. Finally, there was the simple, irrefutable fact that the weather in London had not been beautiful and sunny that day at all - indeed, it had been raining steadily since Tuesday.

The only actual result of all these ruminations, which might have been construed by a man of lesser intellect as brooding, was to put Mycroft in an even more impatient frame of mind. Consequently, seeing his brother seated on a seventeenth-century chaise in a room designated for only the most honored guests of state while clothed only in a bed sheet was rather more affront than his temper could bear.

After his polite attempts to compel Sherlock to observe what should have been automatic social niceties were predictably rebuffed, Mycroft felt that darting his foot out to catch his sheet mid-stride was rather a restrained response, all things considered. And if his tone as he shouted, "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake, put on your clothes!" was rather less restrained, well, it was clearly merited.

Even after his recalcitrant sibling had complied, albeit with great reluctance, with his orders, Mycroft was in no better frame of mind to receive him, particularly after his crack about Mycroft playing mother. "Don't be alarmed," Mycroft found himself saying, in response to Sherlock's inquiry about Irene Adler's work as a dominatrix, "It's to do with sex."

When his brother rather unconvincingly responded that sex didn't alarm him, it was pure reflex for Mycroft to smile smugly and inquire, "How would you know?"

The brief flicker of hurt and self-consciousness that passed over Sherlock's face caused the dull ache in his stomach to flare into something sharper and more painful, a symptom, no doubt, of the regret that had filled him the second the words had passed his lips.

It had been cruel, he knew that now. Even with the extensive surveillance he had constantly trained on 221b, Mycroft could only make an educated guess at what exactly had been going on between John and Sherlock on a personal level. He had little doubt, however, that the subject of sex was surely a tricky one between them, and him calling Sherlock's bluff on the subject in such a public manner can't have helped.

Ordinarily Mycroft would have had enough presence of mind to easily parry Sherlock's half-hearted attempts to insult him, but something about seeing him, sitting there with John, looking so horrifically happy as they giggled and smiled at each other like even the posh surroundings didn't matter in comparison just brought out the worst in him.

In an attempt to pay what penance he could by shifting the focus of the conversation back to its intended subject, Mycroft quickly offered Sherlock the publicity stills of Irene Adler he had procured for the occasion and continued describing the particulars of the case.

He watched his brother's initial indifference slowly blossom into interest, until it was patently obvious to Mycroft that he would be taking the case. Ordinarily it would have brought him tremendous satisfaction to have maneuvered his brother so neatly into doing what he wanted. Yet on this particular occasion, he found that he could summon no great pleasure from the triumph.

On the contrary, as he watched Sherlock dazzle Harry Carrington-West with his usual observational conjuring tricks before making a theatrical exit, Mycroft felt a strange sense of foreboding wash over him.

Such inexplicable sensations of the sort that lesser minds would deem as belonging to "intuition" rarely plagued him, but on the occasions they did, it was always as a harbinger of something dangerous to come. As he grimaced at the familiar twinge of pain in his stomach, signalling the activation of his ulcer which intense worry always brought about, Mycroft could only hope that just this once, his instincts were wrong.


	3. All Fall Down

_December 25, 2010_

There was little Mycroft hated more than the bleakness of his flat at Christmas. Not that there was anything shabby or run-down about it. On the contrary, the sleek, minimalist furnishings and state-of-the-art electronics were thrice weekly kept in a perpetual state of shine by an elderly Portugeuse woman named Marta.

She had been selected from a large pool of potential candidates for her work ethic, character, and, most importantly, discretion. Indeed, so effective was she that had it not been for the omnipresent sheen of polish covering every surface, Mycroft would have doubted whether she came in at all.

But even Marta's thorough ministering could not magically produce the sort of cozy warmth which was for so many synonymous with Christmas. Mycroft told himself it was childish to want it. No, childish was the wrong word - it implied that such a warmth had been something he'd been given as a child, or at the very least understood.

But Holmes family Christmases were cold affairs, to say the least. Mummy Holmes had so disliked the usual hustle and bustle that both children and the holidays brought that she annually threatened her two boys with no presents at all if they so much as considered popping open a Christmas cracker.

Consequently, Christmas mornings were usually spent in the silence of the formal parlor, with Sherlock in the corner busily assembling whatever contraption their mother had decided would be an appropriate distraction, and Mummy herself quietly reading the newspaper as if it were any other day. This left nothing for Mycroft to do but sit quietly by the fireplace, idly poking the ashes in the hopes of summoning a little leftover warmth into their drafty, country house.

One night, after much prompting and no small amount of alcohol, when he'd told Lestrade about these early Christmases, the Detective Inspector had accused him of cribbing this last detail from Cinderella. Mycroft had replied, a little stiffly, that he'd never read it, but was sure that any similarities were purely coincidental.

Gregory. The real reason why his flat felt colder this Christmas than it ever had before washed over him once again. In truth, he had never noticed the lack of warmth in his home or his life until Gregory Lestrade came along, bringing with him endless piles of case-files, bags of groceries, and discarded patent leather loafers. With him gone, all that had been missing in Mycroft's life was rather too apparent.

In the hopes of avoiding any more introspection than was strictly unavoidable, Mycroft had chosen to spend this Christmas in his private rooms at the Diogenes Club, with a roaring fire and as much scotch as his ulcer would allow him, in the hopes that it would drive away the lurking chill and omnipresent memories. It was there that Sherlock's phone call found him.

"Oh dear Lord," he said, automatically donning the cold flippancy he was sure Sherlock had come to expect from him, "We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we?"

But of course this had not been what anyone other than a Holmes would have deemed a "Christmas phone call."

So it was that the Holmes brothers spent the last few hours of what amounted to their first Christmas together in many years within the cold, stone walls of the St. Barts' morgue. Mycroft didn't mind. At least among the dead there was no pressure to feign the joyful, holiday feeling which had always escaped him, and would certainly not be found in such a year as this.

"Look at them," Sherlock said, as if reading Mycroft's mind, "They all _care _so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

His thoughts leapt immediately to Lestrade, to the good man who loved him, and whom he'd pushed away. The sudden weariness that swept over him was nearly enough to prompt him to respond with the truth: yes, he did wonder. Some days, he wondered very much indeed.

But upon remembering that well-intentioned prevarications were even more essential to the so-called Christmas spirit than any amount of holly or wrapping paper, he chose to say instead, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

These were not words of comfort, nor were they intended to be. Soothing platitudes were simply not applicable to a discussion between Holmeses. Indeed, had he attempted to provide his brother with any, Mycroft had no doubt that Sherlock would have responded with suspicion at best. Far better to play the part of the cynic - that is he hoped that he was only acting.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he strode quietly from the room. To the casual observer, this would have seemed an appropriate, even fraternal valediction. To Mycroft, it signified trouble as surely as Sherlock's acceptance of the cigarette.

It served as a kind of code between them. To those for whom December the twenty-fifth meant warm, family feelings, a "Merry Christmas" was a pleasantry, a natural extension of inner seasonal joy. But for the two of them, for whom Christmas had always been at best commonplace, and at worst utterly grim, it signified a much darker state of affairs.

As Mycroft reflexively murmured, "And a happy New Year," to Sherlock's retreating form, he felt a sharp burst of pain from his stomach, undoubtedly the consequence of the unsettling realization that he had known all along that introducing his little brother to Irene Adler was far too dangerous a gamble, combined with the resulting guilt and worry, playing on his already aggravated ulcer.

Doing his solemn best to ignore the pulsing ache in his abdomen in favor of more pressing matters, Mycroft withdrew his phone and placed the call before his brother's long, black coat had finished sweeping around the corner. John had to be told.

"You have to stay with him, John," Mycroft said firmly. The doctor's insistence that he already had plans did not trouble him. Mycroft had no doubt whatsoever that John Watson would watch over his brother until the danger had passed. He always did.

With that taken care of, Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of slumping against the cold, stone wall of the morgue hallway and letting out a groan. He extracted a small, unmarked bottle of pills from the pocket of his overcoat and popped two of them into his mouth.

Once he had worked his way up to taking twelve to fifteen Prilosec a day, it had become clear even to Mycroft that a change in regimen was needed. His contact in MI-5 had prescribed him an experimental drug they were in the habit of using whenever one of their agents was experiencing a similar problem.

Though the new pills did bring him effective relief for the stomach pain, they also generated a whole batch of side effects, most frequently headaches, bouts of dizziness, and even more insomnia. The last Mycroft didn't mind so much - sleeping had become rather more of a hardship than waking as of late.

After deciding that spending the last hour of his Christmas on the floor of a morgue was a little too depressing even for him, Mycroft hauled himself to his feet and began to make his way back toward his rooms at the Diogenes.

It took him two blocks to realize that not only was his mobile somehow still in his hand from when he had phoned John, but there was a different contact name already displayed. It said simply _G (Home)_. All that was left was to press "Call."

He had not spoken to Lestrade since that last late night phone call two months ago. As much as it had pained him to cut off his only remaining source of comfort, Mycroft had felt it was not appropriate to continue things after learning of Lestrade's reconciliation with his wife. He refused to compromise Lestrade's happiness for the sake of his own.

Yet standing there in the cold, watching the last minutes of another gloomy Christmas pass by, Mycroft could not bring himself to just press "Cancel." After a few seconds' consideration, he allowed himself the compromise of sending a text message instead.

But what should he say? _Merry Christmas_. Too generic. He erased this immediately. _I miss you. _ He stared at the words for two full minutes before erasing them, too. However true they were, admitting it at this juncture would do neither of them any good.

Finally, Mycroft settled on, "Irene Adler dead. Possible danger night. Thought you should know. - M," hitting send before he could change his mind again. He then resumed his journey through the snow toward the imposing facade of the Diogenes.

By the time Mycroft's mobile lit up an hour later with the words, "Thanks for letting me know. Merry Christmas, My. - G," he was already passed out in the high-backed leather chair in his chambers, an empty tumbler of scotch still grasped in his fingers.


	4. Someone To Save You

_March 15, 2011_

_It's just business, _Mycroft told himself as he made his way down the crowded hallway, _nothing personal. Just a favor from one professional to another. __ No reason to get emotional._

"Watch it, mate," a gruff voice exclaimed as Mycroft felt something solid hit against his shoulder, snapping him back to reality.

"Do forgive me," Mycroft said smoothly, "if I offer two, minor points of correction. Firstly, as we have never been introduced, I am not your mate, and would appreciate not being referred to as such. Secondly, as you were the one who collided with me, the need for future watchfulness must surely lie on your shoulders. So you will, I'm sure, understand if I politely suggest that you be the one to 'watch it'."

Though Mycroft could not help but feel distinct pleasure at leaving the brute with the badge staring after him in utter stupefaction, his victory was sadly short-lived, as his arrival at his destination resulted in the instantaneous renewal of the stabs of nervousness in his stomach.

After indulging himself in a couple deep breaths, Mycroft raised a hand to rap on the door, only to be thwarted in his intent by the rather startled looking Detective Inspector opening it before his knuckles could make contact with the wood.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade exclaimed, pausing in the doorway to his office "What are you - that is, I wasn't expecting -"

"Yes, I know," Mycroft said quickly, feeling the nerve he had spent the morning accumulating rapidly failing him, "I had wanted to speak with you, but if you have some business somewhere else..."

"Oh, nothing that can't wait," Lestrade said, sending him a quick grin that served to calm Mycroft's still-churning stomach just a bit, "Why don't you come in and tell me about it?"

"Of course I wouldn't dream of troubling you if it weren't important..." Mycroft began, as Lestrade reached behind him to close the door before strolling back behind his desk.

"Mycroft, you know you can come to me with anything, important or not," Lestrade said, with an exasperated smile, "That hasn't changed."

When Mycroft felt himself smiling instinctively at the fondness the other man was so exuding, he forced himself to remember that Lestrade owed his fondness elsewhere now. He thus returned his features to their usual, impassive expression and added, "I simply meant that I know how busy you are."

"Well, do you fancy a drink?" Lestrade inquired, still looking at him curiously, "I can't while I'm on duty, but I think I have some scotch somewhere..."

"That's very kind of you," Mycroft responded automatically, "But it really isn't necessary. I shan't be troubling you long." As he took a few steps toward Lestrade, Mycroft felt the pangs he had been attributing to nerves shift into an all too familiar clutching sensation in his stomach.

_Not now, please not now._ Though he would have normally palmed a couple of his special green pills, Mycroft knew the action would prompt questions from Lestrade he was not prepared to answer. He resolved instead to do what he had come there to do as quickly as possible and take a double dose once he was out of sight again.

"It's about Sherlock," he began, before his intention to outline the whole thing rapidly and economically was immediately derailed by Lestrade.

"Is he injured?" he asked quickly, reaching for his mobile, "Imprisoned in a foreign country? Both? Oh, I knew something like this was bound to happen eventually."

"It's nothing as serious as that," Mycroft said quickly, touched once again by Lestrade's instinctive concern for his brother, "but I am rather afraid he might be in over his head."

"I just got an alert that someone using my credentials had just gained admittance to a top secret military research base in Dartmoor. You and I both know he's the only one who would dare be so brazen without fear of serious repercussions."

"Well, look, even if he does get caught out in a lie, it would be by our government. I mean, you fellows hardly shoot people for a few false credentials nowadays, do you?" When Mycroft said nothing, Lestrade repeated the question with increased concern, "Do you?"

"Of course not," Mycroft assured him after a moment. The guilty silence Lestrade had taken to indicate his knowledge of some sort of government conspiracy was, in fact, far more personal than that. Though Mycroft's concern for Sherlock could be attributed to guilt with little effort, the responsibility for it was his and his alone.

"I know it's an awful cheek to ask," Mycroft continued determinedly, speaking more and more quickly as the pain in his stomach worsened, "especially since you and your wife have clearly just returned from a holiday, but if you could just look in on him, even for a little while..."

"Of course," Lestrade said easily, "anything for Sherlock, you know that."

Mycroft let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It would be all right; it had to be, with Gregory there. He was just about to express his gratitude and make the swift exit the ever-increasing pain in stomach demanded when Lestrade spoke again.

"Wait, what was that you said about me and my wife?"

"A thoughtless intrusion, I'm terribly sorry," Mycroft returned quickly. "You've been out of communication for the past week - a trip was the simplest explanation. Your tan would suggest a tropical clime to even the most rudimentary of observers, so it wasn't hard to deduce that the two of you -"

"But we haven't!" Lestrade broke in abruptly. "I mean, we - Mycroft, there is no we."

"But Anthea assured me -" Mycroft said, thoroughly startled, "Her intel has always proved beyond reproach."

"There was a 'we'," Lestrade admitted, sheepishly running a hand through his hair, "A few months back. Not one of the better ideas I'd ever had. A bloody mess from start to finish, really, if you must know. When she cheated on me with that PE teacher, I was actually relieved."

"Yes, well..." Mycroft trailed off, finding himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

"My fault, really," Lestrade continued quietly, "Should have known it wouldn't work."

Mycroft was just about to ask Lestrade what he meant when the stomach pain, which he had momentarily been surprised enough to forget existed, decided to request an audience by simulating machine gun fire in his abdomen.

Even with his extensive training and naturally reticent disposition, Mycroft could not help but let out a loud exclamation of pain as he clutched instinctively at his stomach.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, sounding acutely concerned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, really, I just, _AAAAHHH." _The world around Mycroft spun and blurred, and when it came into focus again a few seconds later, he found himself on the floor, his legs crumbled beneath him.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade was around his desk and kneeling beside Mycroft in seconds, the concern on his face now replaced with outright fear.

"Just need...pills," Mycroft murmured. He fumbled for the bottle in his jacket, but his fingers seemed in no mood to obey him, and sent the little green pills tumbling all over the floor.

"What the -" Even in his incapacitated state, Mycroft could see Lestrade's face grow noticeably paler at the sight of the pills. "My God, how long have you been taking these?"

"Just a...couple...of months," Mycroft managed to get out, although he could hear his words begin to slur together as his grip on consciousness weakened.

"Donovan!" Lestrade shouted, placing his hands bracingly on Mycroft's shoulders, "Phone an ambulance, tell them it's life-or-death!"

"What's going on?" Sally asked, jogging into the room, "Good God, what's he doing on the floor?"

"Ambulance, Donovan! Life or death! NOW!" Lestrade shouted, loudly enough to leave no doubt as to the urgency of obeying his instructions.

As he watched Donovan scurry from the room, Mycroft knew he could no longer continue the fight against his exhaustion and pain. The last sensations he registered as the blackness washed over him were Lestrade's hands on the side of his face and the sound of his voice saying, "My, stay with me! Please, just stay with me..."

* * *

><p><em>Beep. Beep. <em>Mycroft was unsure whose bright idea it had been to change his alarm from the rousing strains of Schubert's _Die Forelle _to the utterly pedestrian - and frightfully annoying - beeping sound currently rousing him from slumber, but when he discovered the man's identity, they would definitely be having words. _Beep. Beep._

Except..that wasn't right at all. Mycroft hadn't used an alarm for months - it was hardly necessary with how little he slept. So if that sound wasn't an alarm...

Since opening his eyes seemed for some reason to require a higher exertion of energy than he preferred to make at the present time, Mycroft diverted his attention to his other senses. The bed beneath him felt lumpy and uncomfortable, and the thread count on the sheets was decidedly not up to his usual standard.

So, not his bed, then. Not a bad start for only having been awake for a matter of seconds. Now, as to the rest of it - Mycroft shifted his attention to what he could hear. Besides the ever-persistent beeping, there was the distinct hum of fluorescent lights and...what appeared to the breathing pattern of someone caught in a fitful sleep.

Although he might have been able to draw more conclusions about the identity of the person on a good day, the fact that he was lying in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar bed next to a beeping machine and having a good deal of trouble performing any normal functions suggested to Mycroft that this was distinctly not such a day.

Consequently, he was forced to refocus his energy on opening his eyes. At first, all he could perceive was a seemingly endless field of white, punctuated by blobs of color. As his eyes adjusted, however, he saw that the white, though distinctly omnipresent, could be compartmentalized into a ceiling, two walls, a floor, and a strange rolling screen. The blobs of color, meanwhile, organized themselves into a small houseplant, am amateurishly rendered painting of a sailboat...and Gregory Lestrade, curled uncomfortably into an armchair that was much too small for him.

Mycroft was just about to contemplate how exactly he should respond to this discovery - besides feeling irrationally comforted - when Lestrade started awake with a jolt. Mycroft watched a series of emotion pass over his face, from confusion, to realization, to relief, as he caught Mycroft's gaze.

"Good afternoon," Mycroft said weakly, grateful that he was able to speak with at least a small degree of dignity, "Or, I suppose, good evening would be more accurate."

Lestrade said nothing for a few moments, as he rose slowly from his position in the chair and walked over toward the bed. When he did speak, it was in a tone equal parts worry and barely restrained anger. "God damn it, Mycroft, do you have any idea how close you came - what almost happened?"

"I am truly sorry to have caused you so much trouble," Mycroft began, knowing full well that no apology could possibly account for his actions, "I assure you it was in no way my intention to disrupt your day in such a dramatic manner, and I can only -"

"My day?" Lestrade interrupted incredulously, "Fuck my day, Mycroft, you could have died!"

"I agree that my current position is not an ideal one," Mycroft ceded, taken aback by the vehemence of Lestrade's response, "but I hardly think -"

"Do you even know what was in those little green pills you were taking?" Lestrade demanded.

Mycroft thought for a moment, before reluctantly admitting, "Well, no, not exactly, but -"

"A month's worth of calcium, laced with enough caffeine to keep you awake for at least twenty-four hours - that's just for one. From the looks of things, you were taking a good deal more than that a day. The fact that you _only _have a severe case of thankfully treatable hypercalcaemia is a minor miracle!"

Faced with such irrefutable evidence of his own stupidity, Mycroft decided the best course would be to stay silent and let Lestrade finish.

"I'm assuming you didn't know that we've found these little pills at no less than three separate crime scenes in the past six months," Lestrade barreled on, "All men in their 40s. All working top-tier government jobs. And now, all dead."

Mycroft felt his still aching stomach churn a little when Lestrade uttered the word 'dead.' He'd assumed that the pills would have some side effects, but the idea that they could be doing fatal damage to his system had honestly never entered his mind.

"My ulcer," Mycroft muttered, too ashamed to look up at Lestrade, "The doctor...he said they would take care of it."

"And that bastard will be paying for it in prison, I promise you," Lestrade swore vehemently. His voice softened as he continued, "But you had to have known it wasn't that simple.

Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the blanket draped over his lap. Though the doctor from MI-5 had clearly not acted with his best interests at heart, Mycroft could lay the ultimate blame at no one's feet but his own. He had let his desperation overpower his judgement and had paid the price for it.

"I've been such a fool," he said finally, "And I will never be able to adequately apologize for involving you in my foolishness." Even with his careful efforts to distance himself from Lestrade, it seemed he was destined to keep bringing misery into his life, Mycroft thought miserably.

He was startled abruptly from his reverie by strong fingers winding their way around his and squeezing gently. Mycroft looked up in surprise to find Lestrade staring at him intently.

"Mycroft," Lestrade said, all the anger gone from his voice, "I care about you. If I've learned anything from this, it's that no matter what happens between us, I always will. And that makes me involved whether you wish me to be or not."

"I..." Mycroft swallowed hard, finding himself uncharacteristically overwhelmed by the very emotions he spent so much time trying to submerge. "I don't know what to say."

"You can tell me what I can do to help," Lestrade said firmly, keeping Mycroft's hand clasped in his.

That question, at least, Mycroft could answer. "If you really want to help me, you'll go to Dartmoor, find my brother, and make sure he's all right."

"Dartmoor?" Lestrade exclaimed in surprise. "You want me to go traipsing around Devon and leave you here all alone? Absolutely not."

"Please, you must," Mycroft implored, though he couldn't help but he warmed by the fierceness with which Lestrade was refusing to leave him, "I won't be able to even think about convalescing until I know he's in safe hands."

Lestrade considered this in silence for a few moments, before asking, "Why this sudden outpouring of fraternal concern? What aren't you telling me?"

"I just...think he needs a little extra looking after, that's all." Mycroft did his best not to shiver as the image of Jim Moriarty's face - a laughing mouth set beneath cold, dead eyes - flashed in his memory. "Please, Gregory?"

He made a point to hold Lestrade's gaze, hoping to communicate the gravity of his situation tacitly. To his great relief, it took only a few seconds for the other man to sigh and nod his assent.

"Thank you," Mycroft whispered giving Lestrade's hand a light squeeze before falling back on his pillows and closing his eyes.

"Just...get better, My," he heard Lestrade murmur. The next thing he knew, Mycroft felt a cool hand sweeping a stray strand of hair back from his temples as lips brushed lightly over his forehead.

By the time Mycroft summoned up enough courage to open his eyes again, however, Lestrade was gone, and his assistant - she was Cassandra this week - was standing in his place by the side of the bed, her expression equal parts worry and disapproval.

"Are you going to shout at me?" he asked wearily, shooting a glance at her.

"Yes," she said sternly, before relenting a bit to, "but not today. I promised the Detective Inspector I'd look after you, and that's exactly what I intend to do."

The thought of Lestrade extracting a solemn vow from his assistant brought a small smile to his lips, which he quickly hid upon seeing the intensity of Cassandra's gaze.

"I assume it will go without saying that you are not to do anything this phenomenally stupid ever again?" she inquired, arms crossed and brows arched, her tone clearly communicating that this was a question with a single correct answer.

Mycroft paused for a few seconds before nodding contritely, barely resisting the urge to accompany it with a, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she said with a brisk nod. "In that case, I've arranged for you to be released tomorrow."

"Excellent," Mycroft said gratefully, "There's so much that I need to -"

"On the condition," Cassandra interrupted sternly, "that you stay entirely away from the office for the remainder of the week."

"Oh, Cassandra, you can't be serious," Mycroft objected. "Do you honestly expect me to spend the week trapped in my flat when there are matters of national security to be attended to?"

"Yes," Cassandra said firmly, "I do. What's more, _I _will be spending the week in your living room, ensuring that you engage in no activity more strenuous than getting a teacup from the saucer to your mouth."

Mycroft opened his mouth to object again, but, upon seeing the look of determination still fixed upon his assistant's face, decided upon a change of tactic. "Cassandra," he said gravely, "You and I both know that I am the only one Jim Moriarty will speak to. The most dangerous criminal mind in the world is sitting in one of our holding cells right now, and it is I and I alone -"

"It is not!" she snapped, interrupting him again. Though Cassandra regained her customary composure in a matter of seconds as Mycroft gazed at her in surprise, an echo of her former anger still remained as she continued, "It is not you and you alone in this world, Mycroft Holmes. Not with Moriarty, not ever. Next time you think about doing something like this to yourself, you might remember that."

No sooner had she spoken then she turned on her heel and departed, with Mycroft staring after her in shock. He had learned long ago that on the rare occasions that Cassandra chose to yell, there was nothing to do but weather the storm. It was rather difficult to argue with a force of nature exuding fierce protectiveness in one's direction.

And just as it always was when Cassandra felt it necessary to intervene with a strong word or two, Mycroft thought as he slumped against the pillows, she was right. Since in this particular case, Cassandra being right meant that he had people in his life who cared about him, Mycroft couldn't really muster the energy to resent it.


	5. Come Home

May 12, 2011

"Mycroft? Mycroft, can you hear me? Mycroft!"

As the words penetrated Mycroft's hearing, the fuzzy, indistinct world in front of his eyes began to swim and rearrange itself, until it stopped on an image of Lestrade's worried face. He watched with detached interest as the image continued to call out his name, seemingly with increasing urgency.

It took the press of warm fingers against his shoulders to shake Mycroft from his temporary paralysis. "Gregory?" he asked, his voice coming out far more broken and hesitant than he had intended.

He was about to ask what Lestrade was doing there, but a swift glance over his surroundings revealed that question to have a disturbingly simple answer: Mycroft was standing at Lestrade's front door.

"I - I'm sorry to have disturbed you," he heard himself say, though the words were an automatic, mannered response from some deeply ingrained place in his grey matter, not a purposeful statement. "I should...should go -"

"My God," Lestrade interrupted, running his hands down Mycroft's forearms, "You're soaked to the skin! What happened?"

All at once, Mycroft registered the cold cling of fabric against his skin, the slow travel of water droplets down the back of his neck, the freezing rush of wind across his back. "I don't know, I -"

Mycroft tried to think back across the day, to summon the memories of where he had been, what he had done. Though the previous blurriness remained, a few images stood out. A bouquet of roses so white they almost glowed next to the polished black gravestone. John Watson's hands rhythmically clenching and unclenching themselves in time with the strains of "Amazing Grace."

"The funeral," he murmured, more to himself than Lestrade, "I was at the funeral, and then..." But try as he might to fill in the time in between, all he could call to mind was a pervading sense of grey.

"Mycroft," Lestrade said quietly, so quietly it prompted Mycroft to look up and see the worry etched clearly on his face, "That was four hours ago. Have you been wandering around in the rain all this time?"

Mycoft frantically searched his memory once more, but where his near perfect recollection should have been, there was still only a shaky sort of blankness.

At this point the small bubble of panic making its way through the numbness must have shown itself in his expression, for Lestrade said, "Don't worry about it - doesn't matter." He trailed his hand down Mycroft's arm, taking his hand and pulling him gently through the doorway. "Come on, let's get you into something dryer."

Mycroft nodded mutely and allowed himself to be led into the bedroom. "There should be some spare pyjamas in the second drawer down," Lestrade called out as he entered the adjoining bathroom, only to return with a large, fluffy towel.

"I should, uh, probably give Anthea a call, tell her to call off the armed response unit," he said after a minute, holding out the towel toward Mycroft. "Will you be, you know, all right in the meantime?" he asked, running a hand self-consciously over the back of his neck.

Mycroft gave him a little nod and what he hoped was a smile before taking the towel and running it over his hair, in an attempt to demonstrate that he hadn't completely lost his faculties, despite the fact that he was reasonably certain a complete sentence had yet to come out of his mouth since his arrival.

The second the towel hit his hair, Mycroft realized fully for the first time how cold he was. As quickly as he could manage considering the world still seemed to be moving in slow motion, Mycroft stripped off each piece of soaked clothing, gladly replacing them with the welcome dryness of the worn T-shirt and track pants Lestrade had provided.

He was even starting to feel a little bit warmer...that is, until the object on Lestrade's dresser sent a new series of chills rocketing through his body. By the time Lestrade jogged back into the room to inform him that his assistant would be having a stern word with him come Monday, Mycroft was nearly doubled over, his fingers clutching at his shirt in a futile attempt to stop the shaking.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade exclaimed, clearly concerned, "What is it? What's -" It was then that his gaze followed Mycroft's to where the deerstalker was perched on a pile of books on top of his dresser.

"Bollocks," he muttered, quickly grabbing the hat and shifting it to the closet. "I forgot...John, um, he brought it round yesterday. Said something about...how Sherlock would've wanted me to have it."

Mycroft tried to say something, anything, in reply, but the lack of adequate air flow to his lungs compelled him to remain silent.

Lestrade seemed to take his lack of reply as a sign of increased distress, as he stepped forward, his hand hovering near Mycroft's forearm, and said, "Mycroft, are you -" He paused, as if something had just struck him. "Are you laughing?"

Mycroft realized that, yes, in fact that was exactly what he was doing. "God, he despised that hat!" he exclaimed - a long, shuddering breath having finally given him enough oxygen for speech.

"I could single-handedly prevent World War Three, and all anybody would want from me was a picture with that bloody deerstalker!" Mycroft went on, producing what would have been a near-perfect imitation of his brother's exasperated tone had it not been breathlessly delivered and bookended by bursts of hysterical laughter.

"And now..." Tears were now streaming freely down his face. "Now he'll never have to take another picture with it..." His fingernails dug into his sides, hard enough to draw blood, though Mycroft barely felt it. "Because he's in a box in the ground..." The laughs came harder and faster, wracking his diaphragm with pain. "And he's never coming back."

Mycroft briefly raised his eyes to Lestrade's, filled with worry and sympathy, as he finished, "Isn't that just the most absurd thing you've ever heard?" Mycroft could hear his laughter growing sharper and more frenzied by the second and, no matter how tightly he clutched at his sides or clenched his eyes shut, could do nothing to stop it.

A sudden, warm pressure on the back of his neck caused Mycroft's head to snap up again, and he was startled to see Lestrade standing mere inches away. "My," was all he said, but but even in his impaired state, Mycroft could read volumes into that single syllable: _I'm here_. _I want to help you. Let me. _

For most of his life, Mycroft could have found few things he found more difficult or distasteful than allowing himself to admit weakness to another human soul. But now...maybe it was the warmth of Lestrade's touch against his still cold skin. Maybe it was the certain knowledge that unlike so many people in his life, Lestrade would never use a vulnerable moment against him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the realization that if the past two weeks had taught him anything, it was to stop pushing away the people he loved while there was still time.

Whatever the reason, Mycroft could feel something inside him finally snap, as the last of his hard-won self-control melted away. He willed his shaking hands forward until they were carefully resting on Lestrade's chest before attempting to speak again. Even then, a broken plea of "Greg," was all he was able to get out before the sob that had been building during his laughing fit ripped itself violently from his throat.

"Hey, come here," Lestrade murmured quickly, reaching out to draw Mycroft into his chest so his head was resting in the crook of Lestrade's neck.

"Oh God, Greg," Mycroft sobbed, his fingers grasping desperately at the fabric of Lestrade's shirt, before clinging on in a knuckle-whitening grip.

"Ssh, that's it," Lestrade murmured into Mycroft's hair, arms wrapped protectively around him, "just let it out. I'm right here. I'm right here."

So he did - he wept for Sherlock, for John, even for himself; for all the choices he had been compelled to make; for all the pain he had caused; for all that could not be taken back.

At some point, Mycroft vaguely registered his knees giving out from under him and Lestrade maneuvering them both into a sitting position at the end of his bed, his grip never wavering.

Eventually, Mycroft felt the sobbing gradually subside, although the shivering did not. "Oh Greg," he whispered, burrowing deeper into Lestrade's shoulder, in the hope that being surrounded by so much warmth would chase away some of the cold, "This is all my fault."

"Ssh, come on, don't say that," Lestrade murmured, wrapping an afghan around Mycroft's shoulders and pulling him in tighter.

"It is!" Mycroft insisted despairingly, his fingers grasping at the soft cotton of Lestrade's shirt in agitation. "You can't...you don't know what I've done!"

"Then why don't you tell me?" Lestrade suggested quietly as began to run his fingers through Mycroft's hair.

There was something about the matter-of-fact way that Lestrade said it, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to give voice to the secrets that had been eating him alive for months, that allowed Mycroft to do exactly that.

Before he knew it, the whole terrible tale came spilling out of him: Flight 007, Irene Adler, his devil's bargain with Moriarty.

"The flight - that's what was keeping you up all those nights, wasn't it?" Lestrade interjected, his hand stilling briefly.

"I kept seeing them," Mycroft said with a shudder, "The people on that plane. Every night, I would close my eyes and see their faces: waving goodbye to loved ones at the gate; screaming as they crashed into the ocean; just standing there, drenched in sea water, asking me why."

"Why on earth didn't you tell me?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "No one should have to go through something like that alone." He resumed his stroking of Mycroft's hair.

Mycroft shook his head a little before answering, "I couldn't. The thought of you looking at me, even for a second, the way I had been seeing myself...even watching you leave seemed more bearable than that."

"So keeping it bottled up until it literally began eating away at your insides, that seemed like a better plan, did it?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft laughed, just a little, in spite of himself. "In retrospect, perhaps not."

"Anyway, how about giving me a little credit here? I'm a Detective Inspector, Mycroft. I know what it's like to have people's lives riding on my decisions. I would have understood."

"The plane, perhaps," Mycroft responded miserably, "but Moriarty? I killed my own brother, Gregory, as surely as if I'd pushed him off that roof myself. Even you can't forgive me that."

"Hey, stop that!" Lestrade snapped, his tone forceful enough to prompt a surprised Mycroft to push back just enough so that they were face to face.

"Moriarty was a madman, Mycroft," Lestrade continued, his voice gentler. He reached forward to cup Mycroft's face in his hands, using his thumbs to lightly brush the stray tears from his cheeks. "Sherlock was his obsession. If this scheme hadn't worked, he would have tried another and another until he got what he wanted."

"So, no, I can't forgive you, Mycroft," he finished firmly, "for the very simple reason that there is nothing to forgive. This. Was. Not. Your. Fault."

Mycroft stared at him in wonder for a few, lingering moments, searching Lestrade's face for any sign that he hadn't meant those pivotal words. Yet even his superior powers of observation could detect no signs of false comfort or disingenuousness in the other man's countenance; there was only sadness, sympathy, and another emotion Mycroft dearly hoped he wasn't misidentifying.

As he let out the breath he only just realized he'd been holding since Lestrade had begun his speech, Mycroft was shocked to discover how easy it was to inhale again. It was as if Lestrade's expression, so lacking in the hatred or disgust Mycroft had so feared his actions might engender, had miraculously shattered the vast, ponderous weight that had seemingly been pressing on his chest for months - he could finally breathe properly again.

Such was his elation that, for what may have been the first time in his adult life, Mycroft Holmes acted entirely on instinct - he leaned forward and kissed Lestrade.

The sensation of being so close, after being so far for so long, was intoxicating - so much so that it took him a few seconds to realize that the other man wasn't kissing him back.

"I'm so sorry," he stammered, drawing back, "I shouldn't have assumed that you -" but this was all he managed to get out before Lestrade surged forward to crash his lips down on Mycroft's once more.

Mycroft sank gratefully into the kiss, allowing his mind to become blissfully blank as he wound his arms around Lestrade's neck and pulled him in close.

When he withdrew some time later, the first words in his thoughts were also the first on his lips. "God, I've missed you, Greg," he whispered, resting his forehead against Lestrade's.

Lestrade shot him a smile that sent warmth sprawling through Mycroft's body before kissing him again, lightly this time. "Come on," he said gently, reaching up to brush his fingers affectionately over Mycroft's cheek, "Let's get you into bed. I don't even want to think about how little sleep you must have gotten in the past two weeks."

Mycroft made a cursory attempt at calculation, but when his initial estimate had him quickly deciding at he, too, did not want to know, remained silent as he allowed Lestrade to haul him to his feet.

Mycroft immediately discovered that whatever adrenaline had been motivating him prior to his arrival at the apartment had long since dissipated and that he had to cling to Lestrade just to make the short trip from sitting at the foot of Lestrade's bed to lying in his bedding.

Upon coming in contact with the soft coolness of the sheets, Mycroft could not stifle the low moan that escaped his lips.

"Mycroft? Are you all right?" Lestrade asked, his tone panicked. He placed a hand on Mycroft's forehead as he continued, "If it's your stomach, I can have paramedics up here in -"

"I'm fine," Mycroft interjected quickly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. "Really, I just...didn't know how much I needed this."

Lestrade exhaled visibly and gave a nod of affirmation before sliding into bed beside Mycroft. "Mycroft," he said quietly after a minute, "Promise me something, would you?"

Mycroft was only a little surprised at how quickly he said, "Anything."

"Don't ever scare me like that again," Lestrade said, turning to look at him. "Between you and me, I don't think my ticker can take it again."

The worry so evident in his tone and expression warmed Mycroft's spirits enough to prompt him to lean over and give Lestrade a lingering kiss, before whispering, "I promise."

Lestrade settled back on the pillows with a smile and extended his arm, prompting Mycroft to duck under it and settle himself wearily on the other man's chest.

Though utterly exhausted, Mycroft found himself unable to shut his eyes without seeing Sherlock there, crumpled on the pavement, his pale features obscured with blood. Even nestling his head in the crook of Lestrade's neck could not chase the image away.

"Greg?" he asked hesitantly, still feeling very new at this whole 'asking for help' business.

"Mmm?" Lestrade murmured sleepily, reflexively pulling his arms a bit tighter around Mycroft.

"Tell me about your day." He prayed Lestrade would remember and understand.

Lestrade paused for a moment before pressing a light kiss to Mycroft's forehead and replying, "Sure."

As Mycroft listened to Lestrade narrate the mundane events of his morning - making baked beans on toast, selecting the right tie - his eyes fluttered closed once more. The horrifying image of his brother's mangled body gradually began to fade, and soon there was only Lestrade's calming voice, his hands rubbing circles over Mycroft's back, and the strange sensation of being totally at peace.

Just as he was on the verge of falling asleep, Mycroft heard Lestrade finish, "And just when I thought everything might just be lost, that nothing could ever change for the better, there you were on my doorstep - my own bloody miracle. So when it's killing you that you couldn't save Sherlock, just know...you saved me."

Mycroft smiled, though a tear made its way down his cheek. He reached over to interlace his fingers with Lestrade's before whispering hoarsely, "Good night, Greg."

Lestrade brought their joined hands to his lips before whispering back, "Good night, My."


End file.
